Chapter Text
Wilbur gets the news at midnight.
It's starting to rain outside — he can hear it rapping against the window, a storm that'd been brewing all day finally coming to a head. It's going to be a bitch to get home, but other than that, it's rather fitting, actually. Poetic. A perfectly dreary ending to a perfectly dreary day.
That's one of the pros of living in a quiet, seaside town like L'manberg, he supposes: it's almost always cloudy, which Wilbur enjoys. However, it's almost always cloudy and wet and fucking humid, which is unfortunately an apt description for today's weather. The fact that he's been relegated to desk duty doesn't make his mood any better.
God. Sometimes, Wilbur hates his job.
Well, most of the time he loves it, but it’s days like this that he really remembers: he fucking hates his job.
Well, more specifically, he hates this part of his job — the pencil-pushing, the days that are solely dedicated to paperwork and backlogged reports. If he knew how mind-numbing the less glamorous aspects of being a detective actually were, there’s a good chance his eighteen-year-old self would’ve just opted for pursuing a regular 9-to-5 (But maybe not because, again, he loves his job, at least when there's something to do).
The creaking of the bullpen door cuts through the air like a gunshot. Wilbur forces himself to snap out of it, carefully making sure his skin fits again, meticulously rearranging his bones. He scrubs a tired hand across his face, trying to wake himself up instead of looking like the recently reanimated corpse he feels like. He glances up to make sure that, yes indeed, it's just Technoblade walking up to him at a remarkable speed. Wilbur would prefer his moment of vulnerability be private, but it’s better him than literally anybody else.
He’s just getting finished with the last report of the day — some painfully banal case about a stolen car that’d finally gotten resolved that morning — when Techno walks up to his desk holding a fresh, manila case file in a white-knuckled grip.
Tonight, he looks just as tired as Wilbur does if not worse. His usually neat outfit — a pressed white shirt and black pants, no matter the occasion — is disheveled and slightly crumpled. His face looks pale and washed out under their shitty fluorescent bulbs. Wilbur feels a pang of sympathy run through him.
“We’ve got one more.” He tells Wilbur gruffly. He’s standing oddly stiffly next to his desk, but Wilbur’s too tired to think about it further.
“Shit, really?” He really thought they were almost done.
“Not a report.” Techno clarifies, and his expression becomes even more conflicted. “A new case.”
Wilbur doesn’t bother to muffle his groan as he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He just wants to go home. Working the graveyard shift in this quiet fucking town never got any easier, and he’s already at the end of his rope. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow, man. It’s literally midnight.”
Silence. No snappy remark, no sarcastic drawl.
When Wilbur finally turns to look at him, Techno’s scanning the file furiously, almost like he can’t believe what he’s reading. “It’s, uh. It's a weird one, Wil. Trust me, you’ll want to see this.”
Wilbur pauses. He sounds genuinely confused, which doesn’t happen often. Curiosity getting the better of him, he asks, slowly, “What is it?”
Techno’s mouth is pressed into a thin, tense line. “A hiker found a body in the woods.” He pauses. “Deep in the woods. Unburied."
Wilbur’s pen slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor. He doesn't know if his body tingling because of the fatigue or the news. “A body? Jesus Christ, how long has it been since we've had one of those?” He asks, a disbelieving laugh in his voice. When Techno doesn't reply, he continues. "Are we sure it wasn't an accident?" It would still be tragic, but not so unusual that Technoblade of all people would insist that they check it out right now.
Techno shakes his head, expression pinched. "Uh, not unless you count getting strangled as an accident."
Wilbur winces. "Fuck."
“That’s not the best part,” Techno grimaces, reading further down the file. “Guess where he says the body is?”
Wilbur waits. There's a pause, and the only warning Wilbur has before Techno drops a life-changing bomb on him is the breath he takes before saying: “Near XD’s last known safe-house.”
Wilbur’s half-way across the room before Techno looks up. “Call Phil. I'll drive.”
It’s fully pouring by the time they get there. According to the call, the body was found in a secluded patch of woods right next to the highway, deep into the forest itself. Apparently their hiker got lost, stumbling onto the body before even realizing they were that close to the city.
Much to his disdain and shock, the little patch of forest is already bustling with people by the time he gets there. Giant industrial lights have already been firmly planted into the ground, illuminating the trees in bright streams of light. The forensics team is here, along with some first responders and other members of his department. Wilbur’s almost surprised there's so many people here at all, but they must've gotten the same call he did, and a dead body is more than enough to get the whole town stirred. Still, he's already on edge seeing so many people there when he was so sure they’d be on scene first, and flashes his badge to anyone who stands in his way as he ducks under the yellow caution tape, Techno following behind him with an air of slight embarrassment.
Wilbur silently laments all the evidence that’s been washed away with the downpour, all the possible prints and footprints that are now gone. He can see that there’s black tarp fashioned into tents over everything that can be covered, and he internally thanks the competence of whoever decided to protect what they could.
So deep into the woods, the air smells thick with dirt and rain and decay. Wilbur remembers being a kid and spending all his time in this very forest, convinced the tall trees and grass were hiding something mystical, some blissful escape from reality. He could be anyone he wanted, anything that just made him happy instead of worrying about his future, an idea so mysterious it was impossible to imagine at his age. The future seemed bright and endless and brimming with possibilities — he always imagined he'd leave this town someday and make a name for himself, maybe go into film or music or entertainment. At ten-years-old, who was going to tell him otherwise?
Now, at twenty-five, it just looks like exactly what it is — an old, dense forest, perfect for hiding a body.
He treks through the mud in the thick-soled boots he switched into before they got here, fighting to get to what the forensics team is currently swarming, slapping on a pair of latex gloves preemptivevley.
It's not the most gruesome thing he's ever seen, but it's enough to make his stomach roll. The victim is nestled amongst the underbrush, right between some particularly gnarly roots, protected from the rain but otherwise covered in the elements. Wilbur squats down next to it, studying the ligature marks around the victim's neck. He's young, maybe late teens to early twenties, with dark hair and a mud-soaked white, red, and green hoodie. There's no blood save for what Wilbur can tell are the scratches from the branches when he was dumped here, and no obvious injuries aside from what the hiker must've seen too: the dark bruises in a brutal circle around this guy's neck, making it almost obvious what the cause of death was.
There's a palpable sensation of dread in the air as soon as Wilbur lays his eyes on it. Seeing the wound makes it so much more tangible than just reading the vague details, making his stomach twist. Wilbur fights the urge to turn around, overtaken by that uncanny feeling of being watched when you know no one's there.
It doesn't help that the proximity of the location suddenly becomes starkly aware to Wilbur in that moment — just a hundred yards away there's a wood-warped, ancient cabin that he's scoured time and time again, a painful reminder of his biggest failures. Just a hundred yards away is the last relic of a forgotten career, a perpetual ellipsis on the story of his life, a rotting vestige of desperation and greed and unanswered questions.
Right in front of him is the key.
"What do you think?" Techno asks, breaking Wilbur out of his spiraling thoughts. He crouches down next to him, nose wrinkled in distaste. He always hated this part, letting Wilbur take the lead whenever he wanted to.
"This isn't XD's M.O." Wilbur says immediately, reiterating something he knows they're both already aware of. "Or even if it is, it's impossible to tell. He's never killed before, but dumping a body this close to his safe house just can't be a coincidence. The spot is too random and too specific at the same time — no average person would walk this deep into the forest to dump a body. No average person would know even know this was XD's safe house."
Techno asks the question they're both thinking of. "You think it's him?"
"I don't know." Wilbur admits.
None of it makes sense. Not the location, not the timing, not the cause of death. He knows it's all connected somehow, but the pieces of the puzzle just won't seem to fit. Wilbur feels his frustration building, turning into something hot and dense and jagged in his chest. He hates not knowing, he hates being slow to the draw, and this case is making him feel both.
“Who made the call on the tarp?” Wilbur asks off-handedly, trying to clear his head and shake the feeling away.
The officer a few paces ahead of him answers, bored and half-listening, “Uh, Innit did.”
That makes him pause. “Innit?” Curiously, Wilbur doesn’t know that name.
“Yeah, he’s not from around here. He says he’s here to help with the case.” The officer chuckles, like it’s an inside joke. “Brace yourself, man.”
Wilbur watches him walk away, unsettled. "Stay here," He tells Techno, "I'm going to track down this 'Innit' guy. Maybe he knows something we don't. See if Phil's here." Before pushing himself up to his feet.
He doesn't have to walk very far to find a cluster of people all holed up under another tent-like tarp to shield them from the rain, hunched over a fold-out table covered in notes and paper maps. It looks like where most people have decided to congregate, and he can just make out a couple loud voices and enthusiastic speaker. Wilbur cups his hand over his face, trying to keep some of the rain out of his eyes as he scans them for someone who looks vaguely authoritative with no avail.
“Officer Innit?” He calls over the roaring wind. One of the people stops talking, breaking away from the group and looking out into the forest.
This guy looks young. Too young, almost like a teenager. Wilbur would've almost mistaken him for one if not for the blue windbreaker that says POLICE on the back in big, yellow letters.
Then kid's eyes meet Wilbur's and he gives a little wave. He gestures to himself as if to say, Me?
What the fuck?
Wilbur barely has time to process before the kid's walking up to him, apparently unbothered by the storm. His blond hair is dark and damp from the rain, plastered to his face in wet curls. He's wearing jeans and white converse that are now soaked and splatted with mud, maybe one of the truest signs that he isn't from around here — every L'manberg native has a pair of boots with them for this very occasion.
A dozen possibilities are floating in his mind — maybe 'Innit' is this kid’s older sibling, maybe he’s wearing someone else’s jacket — anything that would make more sense than the fact that this fresh-faced kid is an officer.
“It's detective, actually.” The kid says confidently, sticking his hand out. "Name’s Tommy."
“Tommy,” Wilbur echoes, shaking his hand numbly. “Tommy Innit?”
The kid — Tommy — flashes him a toothy smile. “That’s me.” He looks at him expectantly, like he's waiting for Wilbur to introduce himself too.
Wilbur blinks. His ears are ringing.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” He says as politely as he can, spinning around and walking away before Tommy can reply.
He finds Phil and Techno in another hoard of people, Phil smiling kindly and talking to the other detectives on scene, Techno standing behind him as a steady presence. He's so relieved to see their captain that it almost clears his sour mood. It's almost enough to distract from the sharp string of failure and confusion in his chest. Almost.
“Phil,” Wilbur says through gritted teeth, once he reaches them. “Why is there a child on my crime scene?”
Phil rolls his eyes light-heartedly. "Hello to you too, Wil. Why yes, the drive up here was a bitch, thanks for asking."
"Phil," Wilbur whines. "Please tell me this Tommy Innit isn't who he says he is."
Phil winces, looking somewhat apologetic, and Wilbur knows then that he's screwed. “About that. I talked to Dream earlier, and Tommy's here from Essempi. They sent over one of their detectives to help with the case."
Wilbur bristles immediately. “This isn’t their bloody jurisdiction!”
“It wasn’t their jurisdiction.” Phil corrects, gesturing to the corpse a few feet away. “Now it is.”
Wilbur scowls. "It's rather convenient that they always have jurisdiction when we finally get a good case, isn't it? And now Dream's sending an infant to watch over us."
"He's not that young." Phil tries to defend, but stops when Wilbur sends him an unimpressed look.
"Yeah? How old is he?"
Phil pauses for a few moments, expression turning into something sheepish, bracing himself for their reaction. "Dream told me he'll turn eighteen in a couple months."
Even Techno balks at that. He uncrosses his arms in surprise. "He's seventeen?"
"How is that even allowed?" Wilbur asks. "Isn't the minimum eighteen, and even then isn't that a stretch?"
Phil's resolve steels then, and he shakes his head. "His age isn't that insane. Wil, weren't you nineteen when you started your training? Techno, didn't you train rookies only a year older than him all the time?"
"At least I was an adult — "
"Yeah, train is they key word there — "
"Give him a chance," Phil interrupts, making both of them stop. "He came all this way because he wanted to help. Dream obviously thinks he's capable enough. Let it go."
When neither Wilbur of Techno say anything to that, Phil sighs. “They’re also offering their resources.” He says, knowingly. “As much as we need.”
Wilbur perks up. Now that — that is interesting.
Gods knows he complains to anyone who'll hear him about the abysmal state of the underfunded L'manberg department, despite them perviously having one of the highest solved case rates in the country before this town became quieter, less crime-ridden. As much as he loathes Essempi, he can't deny that their funds and resources would be instrumental to solving this case.
He can suck it up. He's a grown-man with an almost eidetic memory. He can handle one kid.
Wilbur makes yet another trek back to Tommy, who's crouching over the victim just like Wilbur was not moments earlier. Something in him instinctively says, Should someone his age be that close to a dead body? before reminding himself that this kid's a detective, for better or worse. If he wants to act like an adult, Wilbur's going to treat him like one.
Tommy's face is pinched and focused. He looks older in that moment, his eyes grayer under the moonlight. He's still woefully underdressed for the weather, getting practically soaked and not looking for shelter. Something about his quiet concentration reminds Wilbur starkly of himself, and he has to physically shake away the feeling of deja vu.
He doesn't know what comes over him next, but he wants to distract the kid a little, or at least not make him so hyper-focused on a rotting corpse. It's what he would do for any colleague, he tells himself, and apparently that's what Tommy is now. He comes up behind him and bumps his shoulder with his leg, startling Tommy out of his stupor.
"So," Wilbur says, "What do you think, child?"
Tommy blinks at him, surprise stark in his face. "I'm not a child," He replies almost on reflex before asking, slightly suspicious, "You want to know what I think?"
Wilbur shrugs. "Sure. It's your case too, right?"
Tommy hesitates for a moment, biting his lip. Finally, he seems to decide that whatever he wants to say isn't worth whatever internal conflict he's feeling, and starts, "Well, he's been dead for a fuckin' while. Obviously he's been dumped here, but this body's weeks, maybe months old. We haven't found an ID yet, but I can assume he isn't from here because of the tan lines around his jacket." He looks up at Wilbur then, studying his face seriously. "No offense, but you're pale as fuck, man. All you L'manberg fuckers are."
Wilbur can't help it. A laugh escapes his chest, sharp and bright and very unlike him. He doesn't even know why it's so fucking funny to him — there's something about Tommy's dry tone, his serious and unimpressed expression on his painfully young face. Something about the woods and bright lights and the fact that, tonight, there's more activity around a case than he's seen in years. Something about the nervous, feverish thing blooming in his chest at the realization that every moment after this will never be the same, that this could change his life forever. It feels poetic, profound in some way, and yet he's here with this random kid swearing at him, calling him pale as fuck. Something about the absurdity of it all.
He nearly doubles over. When he comes up for air, Tommy's looking at him like he's lost his mind, but his eyes have a new life in them, some flickering flame that changes his entire expression, lights it up with something mischievous and brilliant and oh, so familiar. Wilbur's never met this kid before, but something just tells him that this is what he's supposed to look like.
He continues and Wilbur can hear the smile in his voice, and again, somehow, he sounds more like himself. "Anyway, most likely our guy killed him somewhere else and drove out here to the middle of fuckin' nowhere cause he knew that's where no one would look."
"Good," Wilbur says, and finds that he actually means it. "But this isn't as calculated as you think it is."
Tommy blinks. "Why?"
"This is hasty, quick." Wilbur says. "This is move of desperation, not tact." He points to the victim's neck with a pen that he shoved in his back pocket. "See these marks here?" He explains as Tommy nods. "The bruising isn't consistent. It's too dark here, right under the chin, and too light in other spots. This was clearly unplanned. Our suspect is not skilled with taking a life."
There's a pregnant pause. "Oh," Tommy mutters, looking down. He sounds slightly embarrassed.
Wilbur frowns. Hasn't he seen anything like this before? "What cases have you worked on before?"
Tommy's eyes dart to the side. He cups the back of his neck, suddenly very intent on looking anywhere but at Wilbur. "Well, 'worked on' is such a vague term, really, and 'case' could mean anything, so who's to say —"
Wilbur cuts off his nervous rambling. "Is this your first case?" He asks incredulously, knowing what the answer is before he even finishes the question. "Oh my god. You're kidding."
Tommy's face goes bright red. "Hey, asshole, it's not that big of a deal!"
“So you’re a glorified intern, then.” Wilbur says. "And you're helping us with a homicide?"
Tommy glares at him, wet hair falling into his eyes. “I’m not a fucking intern. I have just as much of a right to be here as you.”
“Sure. Tell me that when you graduate from high school.”
Something in Tommy's face changes, his eyes becoming sharp and flinty and lacking their light. “Listen, dickhead," He snarls, voice devoid of humor. "At least I'm bringing some life to this place. When's the last time you did anything useful around here? Wasn't your last case a fucking shit show?"
Wasn't your last case a fucking shit show?
Wilbur feels stricken. Real hurt bubbles up within him, quickly masked by anger, and even Tommy seems to realize how close he hit. Still, he doesn't back down, doesn't apologize, doesn't even look away. He's daring him, saying, Yeah? And what do you have to say to that?
Wilbur has a lot of fucking things to say to that. He opens his mouth —
"Wilbur!" Phil calls, and just like that, the anger is gone, exhaustion left in its wake. He's acutely reminded that he hasn't slept all night. "Come over here, mate!"
"Yeah, Wilbur," Tommy mocks, all traces of professionalism and any camaraderie they had going on gone. "Fuck off."
Wilbur takes one breath. Two. He sends Tommy one last glare. "This isn't over, gremlin." He seethes, before stalking over to Phil.
Phil waves him over. "So we're thinking, for tomorrow —"
"I can't do it." Wilbur announces. "I can't do it, Phil. He's too insufferable."
"L," Techno drawls, looking awfully pleased with Wilbur's misfortune. "Cause you're his partner."
Wilbur stares at him. He waits for the punchline, but it never comes. "You can't be serious. Tell me you're not serious."
Phil winces. "No can do, mate. I just got off the phone with Dream. If you want to keep our extra funding, that's the conditions of the deal."
“So I'm babysitting him.” Wilbur deadpans. "During the biggest case of the year. Fucking great."
“There’s a reason they sent him over for such a high-profile case.” Phil protests. “He isn’t incompetent. Just give him a chance."
"Free stuff." Techno chimes in, earning a half-hearted glare from Phil. "Think of all the free stuff."
Wilbur sighs.